Cat Bit His Hand

Puncture wounds

remand him to the prison
of attending to the grand
guignol demand of selfish

body parts: insisting
on existing in a grumpy
dissolute autonomy:
ready to go off and sulk

and cause the rest of his
half-conscious frame
indifferent pain:
take him to the portal

of the mortal. Now he’s
passing gas: a razzberry
fat splat of fart. Life
does not resemble art.

But feel the lurid
surge and tingle:
look at all that red.
Can’t call this dead.

.